Commentary/Varsha Bhosle

Another one bites the dust

I landed in Bombay amidst a magnificent deluge on the day after the Rain God-sanctioned natural bandh. I've a thing about the rains: Unlike Alexander Frater, I was born during an untimely, mid-November shower, but, like him, the very first sound I probably heard was that of raindrops -- that is, if you discount the obstetrician's terrified scream: "Arrrgh! Push it back in!" It was the unseasonable that inspired the late Jaidev to bestow on the improper one her name.

It was when I visited Russia in the summer -- a year after a winter sojourn -- that I realised how the culture of some places depends upon their climatic dominance. Moscow is not about trees blooming and birds chirping and sunny smiles. It's huddling over vodka-laced coffee in smoke-filled cafés; it's the jingling bells of troika rides, skating in Gorky Park, brushing off thick flakes from eyelashes... It is the alchemy of clean, white, softly falling snow. And when I returned from Moscow flush in July, I had an epiphany of the Mumbai monsoons: Can't say about amcha culture-wulture, but despite all the predictable aggravations and traditional carping, Bombay, like a weary whore vitalized by a sharp snort of coke, abandons her apathetic gambits and comes alive when it pours. Hmm, perhaps one needs to have a taste for perversion...

My fondest childhood memories are of mischief in the rain. Of squishy socks in squelching shoes splashing in forbidden overflowing gutters. Of standing on the parapets of Marine Drive, waiting for the pregnant waves of the storm-ravished sea to break against the concrete into 20-feet-high towers and crash down on me. Of eating bhutta roasted over the struggling embers fanned by a talkative, toothless bhaiya who crouched under a wholly useless umbrella. Of waiting for the voyeuristic moment when his brolly would be whisked up and over like Monroe's defenseless skirt…

Later, the monsoons metamorphosed into adolescent romance: Of clinging to a soaked sleeve; of pressing close under a raincoat gallantly held aloft. Of slipping in drenched into the family-room of an Irani café. Of pillion rides on mobikes, cheating the needle-rain by nuzzling a broad back. Of being mesmerized by smouldering eyes as a handkerchief stroked my dripping hair… OK, OK, it's not as exciting as Rajeev Srinivasan's exotic German-Mexican woman and her not-so-chaste kiss, but hey, I want my CTs, too! (That's local for 'cheap thrills'.)

Yup, ask any Mumbaikar, shringaar blossoms with the rains. And what takes hold on the city, reverberates even through the parched Thar. Sure, Bombay didn't enkindle the Megh Malhar, nor did Kalidas pen his Meghdoot here… But it does set aglow a certain magic that touches and augments the lives of ordinary people -- a chimera that crosses the lines drawn between classes, castes and creeds: O sajna, barkha bahaar ayi… Rain is falling chhama chham-chham… Sawan ka mahina, pavan kare shor… Nainon mein badra chhaye… Tip-tip-tip-tip baarish shuru ho gayi… Barsaat mein, humse miley tum sajan…

And so I returned to the environment that supplies the strongest and best common currency of India. But enough already about Bombay; if one loves a place sufficiently, one simply stays put, is all. Bee-sides, that's about as sappy as I get.

Problem: after being happily oblivious of current Indian affairs over the last two months, what on Earth do I comment upon now? Solution: 50 years of Indian Independence, specifically, the manifestation I witnessed -- the India Day Parade in New York:

It was a humiliating spectacle, to say the least. Especially since I had dragged two pals, both Italian Americans, to brave the hot August day with me. For starters, I am absolutely convinced that 98% of the good folks gathered on the route, had only come to see Amitabh Bachchan. As he approached, the pavements went stark bonkers with the crowds stampeding along his stride. After he went by, the people around me had also gone by. The only other show of such spontaneous animation was reserved for the economy-package of Jeetendra (perched on a -- naturally -- white carriage), Meenakshi Sheshadri, Rajendra Kumar, etc.

I wondered about us desis: what makes us so selectively sedentary? Just a week earlier, I'd witnessed the contrasting Puerto Rican Parade on an equally hot afternoon: Every barrier that lined the asphalt of Madison Avenue had jostled with humanity and seemed to be dancing with red-and-white streamers. Each time a car cruised by, loudly playing a Rican song, the throngs had roared their approval and madly flourished their flags overhead. This was before the parade had begun; during it, I could hear the cheers two blocks away. Please don't throw ethnic-population ratios at me -- Indians are a vociferous lot when they set their lungs to it. I suppose the explanation is that we are above such tacky displays. Yeah right, tell that to Bachchan's security guards.

If the janata was lifeless, the floats were even worse: Apart from the ultra-visible ads, they conveyed naught. And what they did convey, seemed to have been plotted by the script-writers of Saturday Night Live. My favourite one was the one occupied by The Cultural Ass of Bengal -- some bhadra purush had probably deemed that the 'n' of 'Assn' was unnecessary. On the platform, even though the fat lady crooning Rabindra Sangeet was the principal component, a loud-speaker for her was not. Unless it was meant to be a mime and silly me didn't grasp that.

Most perplexing was the Maharashtra Mandal's tableau of Indian leaders -- I could discern "Bapuji", but who was the babe with Johnson's Baby Powder all over her head…? I was astonished that the Mandal had actually coughed up the moolah to paint a banner and hire period costumes -- but that was before I realised that the tableau had gone on foot: 'Twas cheaper than renting and decorating a float, you see. Point to note: the bulk of Marathi expats are prosperous professionals, not cabbies, cooks or newsagents.

Then there was a Kerala entourage, consisting of perhaps 8 people, four of whom hoisted the league's large pennant, while one brandished a placard proclaiming the, er… community of President KR Narayanan. And immediately behind them marched the large-ish contingent of the Brahmin Society of New York. I think I fell down laughing at that point. Talk about method in the juxtaposition.

Then there was our national carrier, the pride of India's stratosphere, drum rolls… Air-India. What with all the fancy Moets it offers, I had naturally expected it to keep up with the Bransons. Well, its parade entry presented a crowned "beauty queen" standing amidst a bunch of squatting, sweating bureaucrats. That is all. I'm sure there's a message in that somewhere…

Things livened up a bit (that is, during the funereal silences which marked the interims between the appearances of filmstars) on the advent of a commercial radio station's float: It blared Daler Mehndi's Bolo Tararara which is definitely not an easy thing to ignore. I thanked god for good old-fashioned Punjabi verve and sang along; but by the end of the procession, my pals had taken it to be the Indian anthem! You see, heeding the response to that float, the ones behind had also decided to go with Daler. I said to my friends: Yes, only our zestful anthem moves us.

So much for the parade. But back home, things were just as surreal: I was told that the aunt had been prevented, "by the timely intervention of MPs in the House", from uncorking a bottle during the midnight session. I wondered, had the aunt planned to launch Parliament like a ship, bottle in one hand, lyrics in the other -- even as she sang? Was Cadburys hocking champagne as Canada Dry now? You never know with these multinationals, I tell you. But I'm still pondering the implications: the MPs in question were Margaret Alva and Saroj Khaparde -- both not of the Swadeshi-touting parties. There must be a sign in that somewhere…

However, what has me really flummoxed is the reaction to the murder of Gulshan Kumar. This was the man who made his fortune by pirating music cassettes; a man whose overseas distribution network ran in tandem with the Dubai dons'. In terms of royalties, he plundered billions from music companies and every music-director and singer, big and small. After which, à la Michael Corleone, he supposedly went fully legit, and in true filmi fashion, all was forgiven by the industry. But now, even journos write that he was a simple, unassuming, god-fearing gent who fell prey to gangland extortion. A victim of organised crime! Am I missing something here? No matter how gruesome his death, I shed no tears for slime. Another one bites the dust, is all.

Hmmm… that is not an upbeat note to leave you on. So let me end with the happening that made me hold my head real high whilst abroad -- to wit, the succession of Smt Rabri Devi to the chief-ministership of Bihar. It proves that India, in just its 50th year of Democracy, is far advanced than the West: Tell me, wouldn't Americans hold illiteracy against a candidate, no matter how suitable she was for the job? Well, Rabriji can actually sign in Hindi, which is all she needs to interact with the Centre, anyway. Moreover, this bouncing mother of 9 children -- the couple's such a fine endorsement for Indian parenthood -- has got her finger firm on the Bihari pulse: "I will learn governance as I did cooking and milking cows." Tell me, can Tony Blair calmly handle pendent udders, huh?

All in all, you gotta hand it to the Yadavs -- they borrowed their name from a certain nat-khat gwaala, and they stay devoted to the divine dairy motif: rabri… milking… milch cows… fodder… skimming the malai… And now excuse me while I get a fix of heroin and acclimatize to Bharat Mata.

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